


Familiar Pattern

by neverminetohold



Series: Familiarity [2]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-20
Updated: 2012-04-20
Packaged: 2017-11-03 23:49:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/387327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverminetohold/pseuds/neverminetohold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Victory demands a price... A quiet moment of unconditional trust in an office, when things are misinterpreted and then soothed away... or tried to.</p>
<p>Excerpt:</p>
<p>Prowl vented a weary sigh, his empty cube resting forgotten on his right knee plate; held loosely. He leaned back against Optimus taller frame, looking up with unnaturally bright optics.</p>
<p>Disclaimer: Transformers belongs to HASBRO</p>
            </blockquote>





	Familiar Pattern

 

The pattern was familiar by now, intimately so. It would repeat itself without fail; over and over. It started back on Cybertron and followed them to Earth.

Every time another city state fell, a mission went wrong or a victory came at such a high cost that it turned into bitter defeat for those left behind to mourn the lost.

It would start with whispers, fueled by the constantly circulating rumors – emotionless, sparkless, a drone.

Whispers would turn into accusations: How can he be so unaffected, so cold, without regret; just going on? Are we nothing more than data to be processed, numbers, pieces on a game board, to be moved around?

Does Prowl not _care_?

He is our tactician, Primes second in command, - how can we follow his orders, his plans, his strategies, if we are expendable to him?

Some would say it was Prowls own fault, meaning the statement to be double-edged. They meant not only his perceived failures on the battle field, they criticized his behavior, as well.

While the other mechs raged or mourned, Prowl was quiet, rigid, aloof. He turned simply back to work, planning for the next attack; his faceplate blank and his sensor panels held high; proudly.

That was the beginning of the pattern, poisoning the atmosphere on the _Ark_ with bitterness, turning interaction between Prowl, his fellow officers and the rest of the crew... _brittle_.

It would end, officially, with Optimus Prime stepping in, with well placed words and insights. Reminding his crew, his friends, that they fought as a team. That this was war. That no perfect strategy existed to win without losing a spark, despite all their combined efforts...

Although not heard for the first time, his speech never failed to snap the mechs under his command out of it, to leave them, amongst other things, ashamed of themselves – and able to move on, concentrate _inside_ , not blame others; to keep going.

Unofficially, though... it did not stop there, although no one knew it.

BREAK

Watching Prowl like that was always painful, to Optimus.

What the others – with few exceptions – were unable to see was, to him, glaringly obvious:

The position of Prowls doorwings, always held high and proud, but normally much more graceful. – Kept at an natural angle, they would never look as strained as this, - it served to suppress their distressed twitching.

The pitch of Prowls vocalizer, to most a monotone used to only convey data, instead of emotions, was less smooth, less soft; too low. His optics were a shade too dim. And his datapads were carried with him everywhere, which was not at all suspicious, of course, seeing as he was _Prowl_. – But only because no one noticed that his grip was stronger than necessary, to cover the slight trembling of his white servos.

BREAK

Optimus vented a sigh, his gaze wandering over the row of chastised looking mechs in front of him and nodded; the signal for Jazz to take over.

The door swished close behind him and Optimus' pedes followed the well known path to Prowls office automatically, with only a short stop at his own quarters, to gather two cubes of mid-grade energon.

As expected, arriving at his destination, he found the door locked. Only his own override code as Prime would work – or Jazz's hacking skills, which he applied generously, when it came to Prowl. It made certain meetings... difficult.

Optimus knocked, as always respecting Prowls choice; he would not take it from him, ever.

It was impossible to tell whether Prowl had checked the security feed of the installed camera or just knew who had come to check on him, - although Optimus suspected he had done both.

The door opened to grant him access, the clipped words "Come in" greeting him. Prowl sat behind his desk, surrounded by neatly stacked and organized datapads, reviewing the information on the last battle, predictably.

It was part of the pattern, the search for the flaw in his logic, his battle computer, the desperate need to find out what went wrong, to prevent it from happening again. Where did he _fail_?

Optimus catalogued the subtle, non-verbal signs carefully, while sliding into the chair Prowl offered him with a distracted gesture. He was already dangerously close to a system crash, too deeply focussed on his self-destructive task, which could never end with a definite answer to his question of 'why?'

Before Optimus could even open his mouth plate, Prowl had beaten him to it, dumping his pad with a clatter: "I know that they did not mean it. I am also perfectly aware of their need to vent their frustration and bitterness, to cope with the... damage we sustained. I know it is only natural to lash out in grief and why I am a suitable target, in their optics."

Prowl paused for a breem, the heavy cycling of his intakes belying his outward composure; showing his inner turmoil. In fact, Optimus knew, Prowl was daring him to interrupt, but he kept his silence; not pitying. He would – and could – never do that to Prowl, but his servos clenched in sympathy; feeling for and suffering with him.

Optics dimming, Prowl continued, a slight waver entering his monotone: "I know that I did my utmost to prevent our loss of sparks, of comrades, friends and family. My strategy was successful, securing our victory."

His sensor panels twitched minutely, as Prowl finished, each word stressed; with absolute conviction: "It was _not_ my fault."

It was a lie; made Optimus' spark clench painfully, futilely trying to reach out to Prowls, to offer comfort which both had to deny the other; a sacrifice to their cause.

Again, Optimus said nothing, offering Prowl a cube of energon, instead. A white servo reached over hesitatingly, taking it after a long, drawn out moment; painstakingly careful to not make servo contact.

They sipped the gently glowing, blue liquid, the room so still that each could hear the hum of the _Ark_ around them and the systems of both their frames. - Prowls were broadcasting his distress as much as any scream or tear would.

Things he had said a long time ago flitted through Optimus processor:

"We can never save them all, Prowl. All we can do is our best."

"Every surviving mech, every sector defended or reclaimed, is thanks to your quick adjustment to Megatrons change in strategy."

"You did all you could. – Never doubt that, Prowl."

This conversation was rehearsed so often since then, - although now it was swallowed by silence and turned into a monologue, - that all words were reduced to hollow husks. They could no longer offer comfort or soothe, bring reason, inspire hope or ease the burden.

Prowl was long past that.

And, as Ironhide would point out with disdain, they were platitudes, anyway. Meant to help not the one they were offered to, but uttered for ones own sake in selfishness.

Prowls cube was half empty by now and Optimus' long forgotten, sitting on the desk, cautiously placed between the neat stacks of datapads.

Optimus rose to his pedes and walked the few steps over to Prowl, carefully judging his reaction to his approach. He did not object as Optimus came to a stop right behind his chair, but armor plates shifted in response, instinctively, to protect vulnerable spots.

Yes, - watching Prowl like that was painful.

Because he was too dear, too important, too much a needed constant in Optimus life for his spark to not _ache_.

Optimus lifted his servos slowly to Prowls rigid sensor panels, tracing well known rims and ridges, smoothing over the warm surface in an intimately familiar pattern. He continued his soothing ministrations for a long time, with infinite patience, until Prowl started to relax, the shift only to be felt; not visible.

The strain on coiled musculature and joints released, the panels started to droop, to their normal level and lower, vibrating lightly with exhaustion.

Optimus went on, spreading his gentle caresses to Prowls shoulder plates, to tender seams and the underlying wiring, to his helm and finally his chevron. His touch found all the tense spots, massaging them gently, knowing them by spark, after all these vorns.

Prowl vented a weary sigh, his empty cube resting forgotten on his right knee plate; held loosely. He leaned back against Optimus taller frame, looking up with unnaturally bright optics.

"It was my fault," he confessed quietly, voice smooth and soft and pitched so low and staticy that Carly would say it was clogged with unshed tears.

Prowl finally trusted himself to voice out loud what he really thought, despite the logic he clung to, out of necessity, telling him otherwise; in numbers and data and percentages. He trusted Optimus to keep his shameful secret, safeguard his vulnerability, - and he did, as he had, for a long time. And he trusted – and _knew_ – that Optimus would continue to do so.

Not a drone.

Not sparkless.

Just Prowl, a mech both special and like all the others onboard the _Ark_. Optimus hoped that they, too, would some orn learn to see that for the fact it was.

Mindful of sensitive doorwings, he pulled Prowls unresisting frame into a tight hug, resting his chin on a warm shoulder plate: "It never is."

BREAK

Jazz was half-way through the process of deftly cracking the door to Prowls office, when a private comm link pinged for his attention: "I am fine, Jazz. Please leave."

Jazz ignored his friend, starting the last code sequence; when: "He is alright, Jazz. Please, leave us."

He sighed with relief, never having realized how tense with worry he really had been. "Yes, sir," Jazz acknowledged, falling back on formality.

He had seen nothing, heard nothing, knew _nothing_. It was part of keeping something secret, which he did; gladly, in this case.

Prowler would be alright; at least, in the end.

Jazz reset the door lock and turned around, to lazily stroll back from whence he came. He pulled some schedules and shift rosters up and fiddled a bit around. Satisfied with his deed done, he kept going, vanishing behind the next corner.

End

**Author's Note:**

> With this second part, the series is complete.


End file.
